Divorce and the Holy Puck

iUniverse, Inc.

Contents

Period 1: The Feel...........................1Period 2: Stick Handling.....................99Period 3: Full Contact.......................209Overtime: The Last Shot......................341

Chapter One

After ten years I had become immune to their suffering. Any divorce lawyer who failed to develop this immunity was destined to suffer a serious drug addiction or a nervous breakdown, with a suicide attempt thrown into the mix at one point or another.

Besides, I had enough suffering of my own. I didn't need any of theirs.

On a Thursday morning in September I had forced myself out of bed, showered and shaved and then stood on my apartment's balcony with a shot of whiskey, smoking a cigar as the sun broke free of the horizon. In fourteen hours, I told myself, I will be back on this balcony, the cell phone off, the world quiet, another cigar in my hand and a bottle of whiskey by my side. It was not that far away. I could make it.

The good part of being a divorce lawyer was that my clients were usually depressed and miserable. It was nice spending time with people who felt as hopeless as me.

At the law firm's office I met my newest client in one of the firm's smaller conference rooms, a twenty-by-twenty foot square with a circular table and windows overlooking the parking lot. I hated the room because the leather chairs had no wheels so I couldn't lean back and rock across the carpet.

"I'm Samuel Oliver," I said, closing the door.

"George Tolliver."

We shook hands.

"Hey, our names rhyme," I noted.

He didn't smile.

I sat down.

George pushed the divorce pleadings towards me in disgust. "I was served yesterday by the sheriff's deputy at my office, in front of several subordinates. The papers say she's filed for divorce and I have three days to vacate our house, and I'm supposed to pay her $15,000 a month in spousal maintenance."

Every client in a divorce case existed somewhere within the five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. It made no difference whether the client was male or female. The emotions were the same.

It was important to be in control when dealing with clients in such situations.

"I am sorry. Did you see this coming?"

"No. I thought I was the one who wanted the divorce. The bitch beat me to the courthouse."

Not denial, I thought.

I started our meeting by obtaining basic information from him, supposedly for his case but really for use in the event our law firm sued him for unpaid fees.

"Where do you live?"

He gave a residential address.

"Impressive. That's an incredible neighborhood. A gated community, right?"

"The house cost close to three million dollars."

"How much do you owe the bank?"

"About half of it."

"Where do you work?"

He named a telecommunications company. "I'm the Vice President of Marketing for the cellular division."

"Your income?"

"Last year, with bonuses, about a million and a half."

I could see he would be a lucrative but problematic client. George Tolliver oozed importance like liquid flowing from a crushed grape. It was doubtful people ever said `no' to him. He wore a Patek Philippe watch worth four years income to the average American worker, a Hugo Boss suit with a perfectly pressed white shirt and dark blue tie. He was a middle aged George Bush, Jr. clone with striking blue eyes and pepper gray hair.

A less experienced lawyer might get bowled over by him, following whatever ridiculous orders he gave, taking insane legal positions to try and please him. Out of fear. Out of the blind hope George would recommend more wealthy clients to his lawyer.

I was past all of that. I would do my job based on his reasonable requests and the law. If George didn't like it he could find another lawyer to represent him. There were plenty of ass-kissing lawyers in town for him to boss around.

If there was one thing I had learned from my alter ego, Sly, it was that no law forced me to work for narcissistic assholes.

"So what happened?" I asked. "What brought you here?"

"We met in college," George began. He sat straight in the chair, perfect posture, one hand on his lap and the other resting on the table. "We dated our freshman year, broke up and saw little of each other until a few years after graduation. We ran into each other at a bar and started talking. We ended up getting married. She couldn't have children and I didn't want to adopt. That nearly ended the marriage but we struggled and got past it. We focused on our careers. She's a psychologist with a good practice, specializing in family counseling. We've been married for twenty-seven years. Twenty-seven years."

He paused and rubbed his eyes. I waited, trying to look empathetic. I used that expression with every client as he or she told the story of the marriage, even if the client was a serial killer and the divorce was due to the spouse finding body parts in the flower garden.

"So what happened?" I prompted.

"Nothing," he said. He looked me in the eye. "We moved into our house on our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. It was our dream house. I thought we were doing well. We served on the board of a number of charities and did volunteer work in the community. Once a week we went out on a date as if we had just met. Twice a year we went on a romantic vacation. Except for not having children, all of our friends and family believed we had the perfect marriage. I think a lot of people envied us, how we acted together. I bought her everything. Gifts. Jewelry. Everything and anything."

George wasn't being honest, I knew. Clients always ignored their own flaws and the problems they caused the marriage. The other party was always to blame.

"Then what made her file for divorce?" I asked.

George reached to the floor for his shiny metal briefcase, opened it and dumped the contents onto the conference table.

By reflex I kicked out and since the chair had no wheels it toppled backward, spilling me onto the floor. I rolled into a crouch, desperately wishing I had a `conceal and carry permit' and a loaded Glock handgun.

"What the fuck are they!" I yelled.

"A few of our pets," George said.

There were five of them, all lying still.

"I used half a can of pest spray on them this morning," George said. "I think it did the trick."

"Are you sure?"

"Actually no, I'm not. They are hardy bastards. I set one on fire a few weeks ago and the damn thing writhed on the lawn and put the fire out. I think it's still living. My wife went nuts, called me a sadist and threatened to file a police report."

George explained they were South American Stinging Beetles, natives of the Amazon rain forest. I listened, pressed against the door, my eyes locked onto their bodies. The best way to describe them was to consider a very large cockroach—two inches long and half an inch thick—with multiple antennas protruding from each side of its head. The insects were jet black and their antennas were almost as long as their bodies. The three-jointed body ended in what appeared to be a scorpion's tail.

"Those things live with you?" I asked. "In a three million dollar house?"

"Now you understand," George said. He sat back down and gestured to my chair.

I am in control, I told myself, sitting but staying a few feet from the table.

"You said a few of her pets," I said. "How many others does she have?" George shrugged....